Hermione Wilkins
by RavenclawReality
Summary: Wendell and Monica Wilkins have everything they could possibly want. Their move to Australia went well, and now they're settling down, even having a child. With baby Hermione Wilkins brightening their days, life is perfect. At least it seems that way, until an inexplicably familiar eighteen year old girl rings the doorbell.


"Shhh... Rest now... That's it. There you go. Thats my little girl," Monica Wilkins cooed at her newborn daughter. A tear slid down her cheek as she took in the sight of her baby's wide brown eyes that seemed to already curiously examining the world, the soft hair that already covered her entire head, and her tiny little hands.

"Monica," whispered her husband, Wendell, "look at her. She's just what we always wanted." He stroked his new daughters cheek with his thumb, and held one of Monica's hands in his. "Have you decided what we'll call her yet?"

"I've ruled out Margaret," she said, "But I still think we should give her a Shakespearian name."

Wendell agreed. "Something classic. What about Isabella?"

"I think it's going to be too common," Monica sighed. "We need something unique. Something not too out-there, but different. Something full and clever and..."

"What about Hermione?"

Monica's eyes lit up, and, it appeared, so did the baby's. Baby Hermione would grow to be very bright, her parents decided. With a name like that, she would go far. It had a nice ring to it—_Her-__**my**__-oh-nee_—and had one other appeal to it that her parents could not quite pinpoint. The name sounded oddly familiar, somehow, though neither Mr. nor Mrs. Wilkins could decide where they had heard it before. Monica said that maybe it had been the name of an old friend of hers from a long time ago, though she didn't really believe it. Wherever it came from, every time they said her name, it filled the air with an overwhelming happiness.

"It's perfect!" Monica said. And it was. Hermione Wilkins, in her first three months, was as perfect as a baby could be. She loved learning, loved people, slept well and only cried when it was absolutely necessary. Her eyes continued to study her surroundings, and she was fidgety and curious. Baby Hermione did not want to be left out of anything the big wide world had to offer.

Three peaceful, carefree months. Three months before that strange day, and a lifetime of questions for every month after.

It was a hot summer afternoon in Australia, with a whispering breeze blowing off the ocean. Mr. Wilkins had been home from work only an hour, and was sitting on the couch with Hermione in his lap, reading her a story. She loved stories, especially those contained in picture books, and babbled back enthusiastically during them. Monica told her husband that this was merely normal baby behaviour, that Hermione could not really understand the stories. But Wendell was not quite convinced.

Monica was perched on the couch's armrest, enjoying her husband's story almost as much as Hermione was, and patiently waiting for it to be over so they could discuss dinner. It was then that they heard the doorbell ring.

Monica sprung to answer it, and was greeted by girl who looked to be in her late teens. She stood tall and confident, but seemed somewhat twitchy, with her face unfocused and undecided.

Eighteen year old Hermione Granger had to plaster her hands to her sides to avoid hugging her mother, and bit her tongue to avoid crying. _These people have no idea who you are_, she reminded herself. _Take it slow_.

"Can I help you?" asked Monica Wilkins.

Hermione was speechless for a moment. Her mother, looking older and more disheveled than the last time they spoke, stood before her. Not asking how she was doing in school, or teaching her to play the piano, or giving her advice, but addressing her as a stranger. That wasn't even the worst part. No, what hurt Hermione the most was how very happy her mother looked. She was practically glowing, even through the small, only-to-be-polite smile that one gives strangers at their door. Images from just one year earlier floated through Hermione's mind. She had always looked so worried back then, so hassled and frightened at the state her daughter was in. Hermione knew her involvement in a world her mother could not understand, especially when that world was having a war, was terrifying to her mother. It almost made sense that she would be happier in her new life.

"_Memini_," she finally said, grasping her wand inside the tote bag she carried over her shoulder. Nothing happened. Why wasn't the spell working?

"What?" questioned Monica.

Footsteps sounded behind Hermione, and she had lost an opportunity to revive her parents' memories.

"I…" Hermione paused. What could she possibly say to the curiosity in her mother's eyes? "I'm a student from around here. At the local University. And I was wondering if… If I could let you know about the current problems with our environment." Her stomache felt a sharp jolt, and she tried not to react.

"From a fellow Brit like you? Sure. There aren't too many of us in this neck of the woods, you know," Monica replied, warmly. She could not place what about this girl made her so charming, and she was sure it was something beyond her accent.

"Oh, really? Okay. Well, um, where should I start? There's uh…" Hermione stumbled.

Monica was unphased, and put on an expression of sympathy. "Is this your first day?" she asked.

"Yeah," said Hermione weakly.

"Don't worry, love, you're doing fine," replied Monica.

Hermione struggled to control her breathing, remembering all the times she had heard those words before and brushed them off. "Thanks," was all she replied. "Well, as maybe you've heard, the thing we're really focused on finding is an alternate source of energy and fuel. See, fossil fuel usage is the highest it's ever been, and when they're released into the atmosphere…."

And so Hermione spoke for minute after minute, looking straight into her mother's eyes, and trading everything she had wanted to tell her over the past year for an impromptu lesson on Global Warming, of all things.

Monica did not interrupt the girl at the door, and patiently listened to the student speak on, nodding and offering an "mhm" where it seemed necessary. She could tell the girl was nervous, and something in her voice seemed calming. It must have been her accent that reminded her so much of home.

Right when Hermione introduced the topic of the Greenhouse Effect—she was desperately racking her mind for anything she had ever read about the environment—she was cut off by the sound of a cry.

"I'm so sorry," said Monica. "My baby must be getting a little hungry."

_My baby? _Though Hermione, frantically. _I'm your baby_. But she wasn't. "_Memini_," she whispered, gripping her wand so hard it hurt her hand.

The spell still didn't work, and Hermione remembered why. It was a spell that took confidence and concentration, and she was barely holding herself together. It was extremely advanced and required a lot of skill. She had really thought she would be able to do it, too.

"I am," was all Hermione could think to say next. "I mean, I am too. I best be going now. Thank you f-f-for your time."

"You're welcome, love," Monica said back. "Have a nice night."

"You too. Goodbye." Hermione waited for the door to close. Then she ran. She stopped when she was out of view, sat down on the pavement, and sobbed.

"Who was that?" asked Wendell, who was preparing a bottle for Hermione.

"Just a student, coming to talk about saving the planet and the like," Monica replied. But something deep inside of her knew there was something more important about this girl. Maybe it was her new maternal state of mind acting up, but Monica felt like she needed to help her somehow.

The student was not brought up in the Wilkins household again.

* * *

For Hermione Granger, the sobbing did not stop. After she ran out of tears to spill on the Australian pavement, she apparated back home, where it was not much better. Sometimes she sobbed on Bill Weasley's old bed, where she could be sleeping for a long time. Sometimes she sobbed with Ron's arm around her, though it seemed to be of minimal help. Sometimes she sobbed in her sleep, and woke up lonelier than ever.

Hermione had never cried so much in a day, so much in a week, and all the tragedy that had accumulated over the past few years seemed to fall on top of her at once, nearly crushing her under the impact. Without being chased, without needing to strategize or fight for survival, without having to keep moving forward at a constant rate, she finally felt the full weight of the deaths, the war, the evil, and on top of that, the possibility that she would never really know her parents as they were again.

Though she wanted to, she avoided returning to Australia after the incident. Somehow, she just couldn't bring herself to go, now knowing the possible outcome.

It took three more months and another birthday for her to try again.

* * *

It was a beautiful sunny day in the local park when Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins took Hermione for her daily stroll. She was six months old now, and spoke to her parents and anyone else who cared to chat with her in fluent, babbling conversations. Her favourite toys were her wooden spoon and Daddy's keys, and she was well on her way to crawling.

"So have you found a babysitter yet?" Wendell asked Monica. Monica did want to start returning to work, if only for a few hours a day, but didn't know anyone who would have time to stay with Hermione when she did.

"Still looking," she replied, and they continued walking along and chatting about the rest of their lives.

Little did they know that they were being overheard by their new employee.

Hermione Granger, now nineteen, had apperated to Australia around half an hour ago, thinking she would be ready to approach her parents again. The thought of doing so, or more the thought of failing, was still clear in her mind, and she broke down in the local park, crying again just imagining their expressions.

She was recomposing herself on a bench when they walked by. Before she looked up, she had an instance where she thought she heard them say her name. _Stop it,_ she told herself. _That's probably not even them. Get a hold of yourself._

But she looked up in spite of herself, and it really was them. She jumped up, just in time to catch part of their conversation. They were looking for a babysitter.

"Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear. Did you say you needed a babysitter?"

"Yes, we did actually. I need someone to watch my Hermione so I can go back to work," Monica petted her baby's head. "Are you interested"

Hermione's jaw dropped, and she took several seconds to respond. "I'm sorry, what did you say your daughter's name was?"

"Hermione," said Monica.

Hermione was overcome with a need to sit down, maybe drink some water and take deep, calming breaths. In the time her parents were gone, fully unaware that they were parents at all, they had not only had another daughter, but _named her Hermione_. Hermione was not sure how to feel about that, besides lightheaded. On one hand, it was as if they had not forgotten her. She had had such a big impact on them that even a memory charm could not completely erase her from their minds. She was guilty for forcing them apart from her, so much that they had to fill a hole they didn't even know was in their lives. And then there was the depression that came back with the realization: she had been replaced.

"What's wrong?" asked Wendell, and his voice seemed to fill Hermione up, spreading warmth through her like the kind that comes with a sip of tea sliding down your throat.

"Nothing, nothing, it's just that… Well, that's my name, too." Maybe, just maybe, if her mum and dad heard her name, they would remember her. "I'm Hermione Granger."

Wendell and Monica looked the girl they didn't know was their daughter straight in the eyes when she said it, and Hermione was sure she could see something, if only a split second of recognition, in their eyes.

"Hermione…. Granger," Wendell said slowly, as if testing to see how the name would sound in his voice.

At the sound of her father saying her name, Hermione wanted to jump into his arms. She wanted to scream "Daddy!" like she used to do when he got home from work, and wanted him to hug her back and never let go. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Her mother looked confused, almost wistful, but regained her composure after a moment, slightly shaking her head as if denying herself an idea. "What a coincidence," she said.

Hermione's heart fell, and she tried to keep her face from doing the same. Did her parents really believe that this was a coincidence, or were they trying to convince themselves that they did?

"Yeah," was all she could say in response, and offered what was possibly the weakest, most humorless laugh in history.

What happened next was possibly worse than all the moments leading up to it.

"I'm sorry, I realized we never introduced ourselves. I'm Monica Wilkens, and this is my husband, Wendell."

Then they each offered their hands to Hermione to shake. Hermione was bewildered. She couldn't even think well enough to pay attention at the feel of each of her parents holding her hand, which she wished she did. When they were done, her hand dropped to her side and hung there, like Harry's had done in second year when Professor Lockhart had removed all the bones from his arm.

Professor Lockhart. The last time Hermione had seen him, he was in St. Mungo's Hospital for… a failed memory charm. She shoved the image out of her mind. This would not happen to her parents, she decided. She would take them up on their babysitting job, and perform the charm as soon as they were out of the public.

"So how about that babysitting job?" was all she could say.

"Oh," said Monica, "right. Maybe you could come over next week and I could see how you and Hermione do together. Are Mondays okay for you? In the afternoon?"

"Monday afternoon sounds perfect," said Hermione. She had been spending her time doing volunteer work, helping to rebuild Diagon Alley and Hogwarts, giving speeches to Hogwarts students and Ministry workers and whoever else would listen, and advocating for new laws to be passed in the Wizarding World. Nothing she could possibly have planned couldn't be done another day. "How about around three?"

"Lovely," said Monica, and Wendell nodded.

So it was settled: Hermione would babysit Hermione. Which is to say, she would babysit her own sister.

It was a strange thought, when looked at like that. Hermione always wanted a sister.


End file.
